


want (need) to talk about it

by storyandshark



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post 120, working title was "Jon sucks at coping with things"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 06:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyandshark/pseuds/storyandshark
Summary: Jon doesn't have the best ways of dealing with his issues. When said issues involve an ancient fear entity, it's probably best to talk about it to someone. Of course, Jon won't do that on his own. Lucky for him, Martin's willing to help out.





	want (need) to talk about it

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really happy with it tbh but you know what fuck it

Jon is tired. Has been ever since he took over as Head Archivist, but it's gotten worse ever since he woke up from... could it be called a coma? He supposes it's probably because he's barely slept since he woke up. He's been reading statements, enough to keep himself vaguely functional. It hasn't been enough to keep up appearances. Everyone in the Institute has noticed how bad he looks and has brought it up plenty of times.

That's how he ends up sitting at his desk while Martin stands on the other side.

“Jon,” Martin says.

Jon sighs, though not at Martin, just at the effort a conversation takes with his level of exhaustion. “Hello, Martin.”

“Is this-” Martin casts a glance at the tape recorder running on the desk. “Is this a bad time?”

“Dammit.” Jon turns the tape recorder off, ejects the tape for good measure. “No, it's fine. What do you need?”

“I want to talk to you, Jon.”

“Ah. I- I- right.” Jon clears his throat, makes an attempt to compose himself. “About?”

“You.”

“I'm fine, Martin, I'm just-”

“Bullshit.” Martin's tone is starkly different than normal, firm and direct. “You're not fine. I know what it looks like to _pretend_ to be fine, and you're not even doing that.”

“I know you're worried,” Jon says, “but there's nothing you can do. I just need to find a way to deal with... with all of this.”

Martin gets that steely look in his eye, the one he's gained since Jon woke up, since Elias... since Elias. “I can talk. And I can listen. Talk to me, Jon. Please.”

Jon relents, as if Martin is the one with the power of compulsion. “Alright. Pull up a chair.”

Martin exits briefly, then comes back, dragging an office chair behind him. Jon tries to organize his desk, sweeping papers he's too tired to even discern the content of off to the side. Martin leaves again, much to Jon's confusion, and returns with a cup of tea that he pushes across the desk. Jon smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, taking a drink from the tea even though he's not sure he has enough of his senses to be able to taste it.

With Jon now agreeing to his therapy session or what have you, Martin has returned to his normal demeanor, slightly fidgety and anxious. “You're welcome.”

There's silence, and Jon doesn't know what to fill it with. Normally he'd ask questions, even as just a formality, but he can't. He can't ask a question without pulling the answer from someone, without rooting through their minds around so he can get the answer he needs. Martin clearly doesn't know how to start either. How do you ask someone about why they can't sleep, why they never talk, what deeply rooted trauma is nearly killing them inside? Jon would know, normally, he pulls those answers from people all the time; statement after statement, question after question, feeding the Eye.

“What's- what's wrong?” Martin finally says, and Jon doesn't know how to answer.

He just laughs bitterly, pushing his glasses up and pressing his fingers to his temples. “What isn't?”

“Okay.” Martin is still gentle, understanding. “Let's just start one thing at a time.”

“Martin, you don't have to-” Jon sighs. “You have enough to deal with on your own.”

Martin just smiles. “You already agreed to this, Jon. And you're right. I have had a lot to deal with, but I wasn't in a coma for a month. You need to talk about it, or you at least need to sleep a bit.”

He's right, and Jon can feel the words tumbling out of his mouth partly out of his control. “It wasn't a coma. My body was dead. _I_ was dead. The Eye... it's been keeping me alive. It's been making me into its monster.”

Martin reaches out, hesitates, then takes Jon's burned hand in his. “You're not a monster.”

Jon wants to retort, to say _Aren't I?_ , because he knows he is, but he loses himself in Martin's touch. Jon doesn't like much physical contact as a general rule, but this is different. Because despite everything that's happened, everything Jon has done and everything that he is, Martin doesn't think he's a monster. Martin cares about him, cares for him, and Jon is so scared that he's going to break that too. Jon is so _scared_ , all the time, and he's so tired of being scared.

“I don't know,” he finally says, unable to form any other words. “I don't know.”

“Look,” Martin says, running his thumb over Jon's knuckles absently, “you're still human. You're not Elias.”

Jon shakes his head. “No. Not Elias.”

He'll _never_ be that. To hurt other people like that, to turn someone's love into pain, to reach into someone's memories and plant things that shouldn't be there. No. No matter how far gone he is, Jon will _never_ do that. He has to continue to believe that he'll never do that, to keep himself on whatever vestige of sanity still remains.

“Gertrude,” he finally says, and Martin tilts his head and nods for him to go on. “She was... Her assistants died. A lot of them. Because she killed them. She got them all killed, and she didn't care. Anything to stop the Entities, anything for the Eye. It's turning me into an Archivist, just like she was.”

“That's not your fault.” Jon tries to object, but Martin stops him. “It's not. None of us realized about Sasha, and Tim... From what Basira told me about what happened during the Unknowing... I don't think anyone could have done anything.”

“How many more can I lose?” Jon says. “I don't want... I _can't_ lose anyone else. By just existing I'm putting all of you in danger. It's what things like me and Gertrude do.”

“You're not Gertrude. You _do_ care. That's what I-” Martin reddens, chokes, instinctively pulls his hand back and tries to collect himself. “You do care. If you care about what happens to all of us, then you aren't her, and you aren't Elias. Yeah, the Eye is fucking all of us up, but you aren't a monster, Jon.”

“It's giving me powers. I compel answers with any question. I hear everything that goes on these goddamn tape recorders. I heard... I'm sorry, Martin.” This time Jon reaches out, takes Martin's hand even though the gesture is awkward and not what he's used to. “Elias…”

“Yeah.” Martin looks down at the desk, at their hands held together.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, then sucks in a breath, realizing once again that he's compelling forth an answer. “You don't have to…”

“No, no, it's fine. I'm doing... okay.” Martin doesn't elaborate, and Jon doesn't ask him to. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does, Martin. What Elias did, it-”

“I know.” Martin doesn't snap the words, but his tone is direct.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.” Martin's voice is softer now, and he squeezes Jon's hand in reassurance.

They don't talk for a while. There isn't much to say. Jon almost finds himself falling asleep, head resting against the hand not holding Martin's. He drinks some of the tea, which has gone a bit cold by now. It's good enough, regardless.

Eventually, Jon makes an admission, one that he's made many times before but is still loathe to say aloud. “I'm scared,” he whispers.

Martin lets go of his hand, and for a moment Jon thinks he's leaving. Instead, Martin crosses over to the other side of the desk and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon stands, pushing the chair back behind him. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, holding him just as tightly. It's more contact — contact that isn't desperate violence — than he's had in months. Jon doesn't realize he's started crying until the tears are flowing freely down his face. He doesn't like to cry, but with everything that's happened combined with his sleep deprivation, it's impossible to stop.

“You're going to be alright,” Martin whispers, and Jon can feel his breath on the side of his face. “It's going to be alright.”

They just stand there, holding each other. Jon doesn't want to let go. He needs this. He needs Martin. All the fear and exhaustion and grief, he needs to have something else. Comfort.

After some time, Martin pulls away, and Jon wants to pull him back, to hold on forever in this moment of calm. He doesn't, but he wants to. As they draw away, Jon stops, not knowing what to do.

“Is this-” He makes a circular gesture with one hand. “Is this alright?”

“Yes.” For once, Jon is glad that he knows for sure that Martin is telling the truth. “Yes.”

Jon cups the side of Martin's face with one hand, leans forward and presses their foreheads together, hesitant to go any further. Martin seems to be also, just reaching up and brushing his thumbs across either side of Jon's face, wiping away the tears still lingering there. Jon wants to kiss him, he realizes with equal measure of surety and surprise. But that will come later. There will be time for that later. There has to be.

They do let go, eventually. They both smile at each other. They linger there, close to touching. Jon sits back down and Martin crosses back to the door. Before he can leave, Jon speaks.

“Thank you, Martin.”

A light laugh bubbles from Martin's lips. “You too.”

Jon shuffles through some of the papers on his desk and coughs. “And could you do some follow-up on the statement of... Judy Greer about the ghost in her bedroom?”

Martin smiles. “Get some rest, Jon.”

As Martin closes the door behind him, Jon can still feel the lingering joy in his chest, chasing out the fear.


End file.
